Aftermath
by Strelitzian
Summary: One young Vulcan's ascendancy has horrific consequences. Spock/Uhura, eventual Spock/OC, rated M for later chapters.
1. Prologue

_She left him kneeling there, on soil where the ancient dead were not buried. He watched her quick march back to the capital and thought…nothing. The emptiness inside his head had nothing to do with the discipline: it was exhaustion. He was tired: tired of Kirk and McCoy, tired of Prime, tired of Harani, tired of this ridiculous place. And there was no way out. Sumar had barred all travel between cities and getting hold of a working spacecraft was imposs—improbable. Most had been stripped of their technology and the metal melted down for the crude houses clinging like parasites to the walls of the new High Council. Still kneeling, he pressed his forehead down against the dirt. Sutarek's alcoholic concoction was shooting through his veins and it had completely switched his mind off. It was…good. There was nothing except preternatural warmth in his body and the blackness of his shadow on the ground. Blackness. Blackness. Blackness..._

The new Vulcan colony had been established within six years, and it was magnificent. Spock and his father, and even Prime – as the younger Vulcan privately preferred to call him – had visited it, at the opening of the new Academy of Science. A handful of senior Starfleet representatives had joined them, self-congratulatory at having 'dealt with' the Vulcan problem. Had Spock been inclined to speculate, he would have imagined hearing their motto: _The Vulcan's feel nothing. They will rebuild and feel nothing. I will feel nothing. _

Of course, they simply did not understand. Like the dark heat of the _Pon Farr, _there were many things deep in Vulcan blood that were simply not to be discussed, especially with the hysterical human race. The Vulcan mind could dwell on a multitude of subjects at the same time and maintain perfect clarity, but the back of Spock's mind rang with the suppressed fury of ten thousand Vulcans forced to build a new home in the wastes of the first planet Starfleet could furnish them. Rage. Grief. His mind was positively howling.

He could still remember that day the _Enterprise_, when the refugees stood as silent as space, nursing wounds and poring over whatever reading material was available from the ship's library. Solace came in the straight lines of military precision. Any human would have looked on and thought of automatons. Any Vulcan would have seen the slight trembling of the muscles, the widened eyes, felt the hot stabs of heartache. _I grieve with thee. _The same sentiment was pouring out of every mind capable of expressing it, a message to the others without breaking the code of Vulcan discipline.

Such grief had not dimmed, even these six years later.

"Well," said Admiral Pike, as he prepared himself to board the shuttlecraft, "It seems everything is back to normal now." He beamed widely at Spock, who simply looked back at him, his hands clasped behind his back, and replied, "As you say, Admiral."

Pike's smile faded a moment, before he inclined his head gently and boarded the shuttlecraft. As the craft took off, Prime approached Spock and said, "There is anger among us, but there is also…" he searched for the correct word, "hope."

"The colony is a commendable achievement, especially for so poor an environment. You and your teams are to be congratulated," Spock said, idly tracking something indeterminate in the distance. It was…difficult to look upon the elderly Spock, for doing so foreboded mortality – a logical progression, naturally, but disagreeable to face so soon. "I have heard that one particular young man is worthy of attention."

"Ah, that would be Sumar - a brilliant mind, a remarkable engineer. He's responsible for most of the main buildings and spacecraft we have. Now that the bulk of those works are completed, he is contemplating a career in high office." Prime paused for a moment and considered this, "I would wish him well, but I cannot lie."

Spock turned to face Prime, "Specify."

Prime sighed quietly. "Sumar's grasp of the discipline is largely selfish. His logic is entirely personal. If it stands him in good stead to withdraw his emotions, then that is what he will do. Remember, Spock, those rare few who choose to reject the disciplines.

Of course, it was almost unheard of. Almost. Such individuals were barely detectable among their peers, at least to a human or any off-worlder, but a Vulcan would know them straight away. "There is evidence to suggest that a lack of the more rigorous controls do not in any way impair the individual in day to day life on Vul -among Vulcan's." Spock stepped over his mistake, and Prime gracefully ignored it. Even six years later, there were still these certain minute slip ups. "Although, from what you say, the logical conclusion would be that you are experiencing an emotional reaction against this Sumar, perhaps originating from your own distaste at his choices."

Prime arched one eyebrow, slowly. He inclined his head, "Perhaps."

Soon after they parted, Spock made towards his father's house, in the heart of the new capital. It was a modest structure, and even though beauty lay in its minutiae, it was still compelling against the sweeping arcs of Sumar's new city. The inside was sparsely furnished, for his father had little need for ample space and furnishing, now that he had no wife to fill the house with guests. Spock took in the small, intricately carved stone of the house as he walked through the tiny garden – a specification of Sarek's, though he did not tend it himself. They did not speak of it, aloud, but this was Amanda's garden; a tribute to her little patch of flowers that once bloomed on Vulcan.

It was foolish of him to have come to the house. Sarek would not be home; he was engaged in duty with the High Council. He let himself inside anyway, and took a seat in the minimalistic living room. This time, Spock considered his wish to simply be in the new home of his father, and to reflect upon the future of the city. It was good. Almost without prompting, he began to sink into a light meditation: Vulcan, his mother, his father, the colony…they flashed like lightning through his crystal clear mind. Make sense of it? Unlikely.

His communicator beeped. He flicked it open.

"Spock, you're still in T'Hula, aren't you?" said the Captain.

"T'Hual, sir, and yes. I intend to leave within the hour."

"Forget it. There's been an incident at the High Council. One of the elders has died and we received a message from your father saying that he suspects…well, Spock, he says he suspects murder. Gomand find out exactly what's happened, then report back to me and we'll see where we go from there. Understood?"

"Affirmative, Captain."

Spock closed the communicator slowly and stood still for a moment. The wilful cessation of life… by a Vulcan? It was one of the great taboos; murder was practically unheard of among Vulcans. However, he would not speculate. He took a last look at his father's house, not quite knowing why he had been drawn to it, before heading towards the great hulking stone building of the High Council, the colossus that cast its shadows over the city.

_As he woke, he wiped his eyes. He was curled up in the sand, just outside the city gates where Uhura had left him. What day is it? Is it the same night? Is there anyone left I can ask? 'Sumar,' Spock thinks, as the alcohol fires up the old wrath; 'Sumar, if I could get close to you now, I would kill you where you stand. I would make you suffer as we have suffered. Agony, shame, guilt. All those years ago I let you walk free, and look what you have done to me. Look at me in the dirt; you did this to me. I wished you long life and prosperity. I vow, Sumar, all of this will end by my hand.'_

_Desperately thin, and ragged, the Vulcan pulled himself along the streets of the city, walking into walls and knocking things over as he went. 'Undignified'…he thought; 'I cannot stop…I do not wish to stop…' Somehow, he avoided the sparse patrol of guards enforcing the curfew – they were mostly corrupt, degenerates: He never could have believed such of his kind... Finally, he crashed into the bones of the old Academy. _

_Harani sat on the wall, outside, waiting. She stood as Spock approached. He looked at her expressionless face and almost – before catching the thought – laughed. He thought about telling her…something…but he couldn't remember what. He said nothing. She cast her eye over his body. So thin. He was destroying himself from the inside. They were all going mad, in their own ways of course. A choking anger held her throat as she looked at him, as she considered the man who had done this to him, that Spock himself had allowed it to happen. She said nothing. She had learned that a look could be more things to a Vulcan than she had ever realised, and it was enough._

"_We must do something," she whispered. "And soon."_


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One

It was only natural that the Federation would overrule Prime's suggestions and choose Maurhiwa, the desert wastes - and the Federation's white elephant - as the seat of the new colony. The scrubs of the land were grey and waxen, while only the tiniest creatures scuttled around; seeking whatever moisture they could glean from the sands. It was a merciless place. Maurhiwa, whose mass from space was a spectral yellow, where the air was dry and choked with dust: the very idea of it seemed ill-fitting, unbecoming of the last remnants of such a proud race.

Yet there T'Hual stood, the capital. Built from the plentiful supplies that Starfleet furnished, T'Hual sprawled for miles. Miles of stones carved intricately in the manner of those on old Vulcan, in a surprising nod to a sense of nostalgia, which rose and flourished into high stories and arched in colours of steel and brownstone, visible from space as gleaming needle points. Yet, it was by no means the ancient lands that had supported Vulcan steps throughout all their history. Starfleet had provided the means for food, for water, for breathable air, and their own efficiency and knowledge of arid terrain meant that the colony was functional within the phenomenal time of six years: but it was not their home. No, Maurhiwa was merely a place that would suffice as a foundation for the survivors of Nero's act.

Of course, such emotions barely featured within the Vulcan scope, and at the end of six years, three months and thirty eight hours, ten seconds, from the time construction began, the colony was fully functioning. The colossal structures of the Science Academy and the new High Council dominated the skyline, much as they dominated the two factions of the Vulcan psyche: logic, and the application of ritual to the fiery outbursts of _Pon Farr_.

For now, Maurhiwa was…enough. A root to cling to, when there were no others.

Yet their society was reeling in the intensely private way that only it could. There could be no avoiding the truth of the matter: their planet had been ripped from under their feet, against all reason. In such times, those who had resisted the usual and more rigorous emotional conditioning, at the age of six, were quietly regarded with a faint suspicion. How would they react? Though they did not express emotions as freely as humans, they were to be seen smiling and laughing occasionally among their own peers, or reflecting moodily on some personal difficulty. There were those who spoke outright that, logically, at such a vulnerable time there was the possibility of "contamination" or of some kind of rebellion. Most individuals privately congratulated themselves for having an obviously superior confidence in their own control.

The death of Sirar, the Elder, and the quick rise of Sumar, the city's architect, to his place did not help matters. The humans had a saying that unfortunate events came in threes - Sarek, in an idle moment, often anticipated what would follow. Of course the Vulcan's were suspicious, and were disappointed by Starfleet's ruling of a "natural" death. All death was organic by nature: sometimes it was merely augmented by force. It was interesting to note how gravely these suspicions were dismissed, at least to those without the skills to read a Vulcan face. It was illogical to maintain them without facts, and so the matter was dropped - at least publicly. After all, they had a new planet to make their own.

Sarek was seated in a contemplative mood at his desk, his face impassive. His desk, like the rest of his little house, was meagrely furnished, with only his computer and a small picture of Amanda in the far corner. It was emotional, of course, but Sarek was beyond the point of embarrassment. Why should he not grieve the loss of his wife just as the rest of his race mourned the loss of their planet? There was logic in equality, especially when he refused to allow his day to day life to be ruled by such sentiments. He missed Amanda, and missed the child that she had raised with him - the one he had once, shamefully, dismissed as "so human" on the day he was born. Of course the child was human, it was his birthright. Just as Vulcan was, just as Starfleet was, and the rest of the universe. Just as a father's pride was.

He sighed. Perhaps he was being a little illogical. After all, Spock was on the planet now, in the final stages of his inquest into Sirar's death, and at Sarek's request. There was no call for the luxury of missing him, other than the odd need to make sure that Spock, too, was not at risk. Suddenly the course of his thoughts changed, and he considered the human woman - Uhura. She was a good match for Spock, though it had taken time to grow accustomed to her. He recalled first meeting her and he mentally shuddered at how unpleasant it had been. At first he had objected…then Spock, whose skills appeared to have been sharpened by life under Captain Kirk, had argued with him. What could Sarek have said? His son's logic was flawless: T'Pring was among those who had perished in the cataclysm, and in a few years the _Pon Farr _would require the presence of a mate. His son was "fond" of Uhura, as Spock had said with a wry look at the female, and since it was not without precedent, why should she not become his partner? Sarek recalled the slight rise at the corner of his mouth, and had eventually bowed his head.

"I can have no objections, my son."

That had been approximately four years and two days ago, though a formal bonding was yet to take place. Sarek raised an eyebrow at that thought: perhaps his son enjoyed the freedoms of a partnership without the constraints of marriage. How very human.

Perhaps that was acceptable.

Spock himself had not changed a great deal since that day, though Sarek - in his own way - had fretted that the great blow to their race would release him from their control. It was not so, and neither had the proximity of the humans - his officers, or his…lover - deadened the sense of loyalty Spock had for his people. It was illogical, but Sarek insisted that Spock speak only Vulcan while they were at home together; though while this proved to become routine, it was unnecessary since Nyota could speak Vulcan quite proficiently, although there was one occasion where she had addressed him as though he were female. She was intelligent, and seemed to understand the privacy of the Vulcan soul: she had not once indulged in one of the distasteful emotional displays so common among humans, and had barely touched Spock, at least not in front of Sarek.

Time to move on.

The matter of Sirar's death was troubling. The coroner ruled that Sirar had suffered a stroke that had killed him within minutes. Of course, it was a perfectly common occurrence, but the shadow of Sumar hovered over the death and Sarek could not ignore it. He could not have explained why. As an ambassador, he had spent a great deal of time among the political elite of the new colony, and Sumar had always been a presence there, however minor. It was inevitable that their minds would brush lightly against each other, however briefly - for sometimes not even the Vulcan's had enough energy to maintain their legendary control.

No, Sarek had…felt…something, or had seen a stray thought in Sumar's mind. It was nothing concrete, and certainly nothing he could legally obtain evidence of, since to use ones telepathy to extract information forcibly was a great taboo. But Sarek had seen it, and so had contacted the Federation, anticipating that their inquiries would dig up something against Sumar. But they had not, and the case was considered closed. All Spock was required to do was draw up a report and deliver it to delegates from the Council. _He will be home within the hour…_

Yes, Spock was a perfectly satisfactory son.

"…then from your report, we may consider that the cause of Sirar's death natural causes and not, as your father suspects, by the application of force from an external party?"

"That is correct, T'Pau."Spock replied. T'Pau - if ever a mortal being could claim to be indestructible, it was she. "From the evidence gathered, logic dictates that there is no reason to continue a murder inquiry."

T'Pau and her delegates murmured softly among themselves for a few minutes. Spock watched on, observing every gesture each of them made. There was a divide in the group: Sarek was highly regarded by the council, and he was influential. T'Pau, with her ancient and sedate stubbornness, eventually shouted overruled them. The mechanics of her brain were well maintained, even after all these years, and her proud resolution of Sumar's innocence was dominating.

Final the group was silent, and T'Pau turned back to Spock, "This is pleasing. We may consider the case formally closed. You are dismissed, Spock. Peace and long life," T'Pau made a move to rise from her seat and leave, before she reconsidered and looked back at Spock, "Peace and long life, Spock, to you and your…human."

Spock's only raised his eyebrow. There were Federation officials -Admirals and Commissioners - listening to the live translation of the proceedings, and her implication would have been dissolved inside the complexities of the Vulcan rhetoric. There was simply no need. "Thank you, T'Pau." He neither raised his hand in salute, nor did not offer her the customary farewell. She waited a moment, but it never came. She nodded her head curtly, and led her delegates away out of the hall. Spock turned on his heel, and spotted Nyota in the crowd. She, at least, had understood. She wasn't wearing the translator, and her face was uncharacteristically expressionless. He nearly smiled, and she beamed back in response.

Everyone began to file out slowly, murmuring amongst themselves, and Spock walked over to Nyota. She took his hand. "That must've been hard, Spock." she said.

"It was neither easy nor difficult. It was duty, Nyota."

"Faithfully carried out, Spock." called out a voice. Uhura started, while Spock merely turned his head. At the far end of the hall sat Sumar, alone. He was a young man, and Spock could perceive the subtle nuances in his carriage, and even in the carefree light of his eyes, the emotions that were freer to him than to most others. Sumar proved the point by smiling broadly, before suddenly dropping his face back into the passive mode assumed by most Vulcans. Spock smiled inwardly at Nyota's surprise. She had heard of Sumar, of course, but had never actually seen this type of behaviour among his kind. He rose and bowed low. "I am Sumar, though I imagine you know this."

"I do."

"You know me because of your father. He thinks I had something to do with Sirar's death, I believe."

"That is true."

"Am I a suspect?"

Nyota cleared her throat, "Didn't you hear them? No, you're not."

Sumar glanced at Nyota. "Very good. I am relieved." Sumar was tall, about a head taller than Spock, and to all appearances was entirely Vulcan, though Nyota perceived the subtlety of his expressions, the tiny expressions of emotion that it took Spock years to get comfortable with showing her. "It is not at all pleasant to find oneself in this kind of embroilment, however unfounded the accusation. Thank you, lady, for indulging my emotional need to feel vindicated."

"You're, uh, welcome."

Sumar straightened and saluted Spock, "Peace and long life."

Spock replied in kind, "Live long and prosper, Sumar."

Sumar smiled quickly, before bowing low to the two of them. He parted through the doors through which T'Pau and the rest of those present had parted, and left Spock and Nyota alone in the hall. "Do you trust him?" Nyota asked.

"Interesting. I can only rely on the evidence I received from the coroner, which indicates that Sirar died from a stroke. However, my father still feels suspicion towards Sumar, much like I still do. It is not logical."

Nyota smiled and put her arm through Spock's while they walked towards the doors, "Maybe your human's just rubbing off on you a bit."

Kirk sighed once he returned to his quarters. It was good to have that business out of the way. The idea of murder on Vulcan was disturbing. He had seen how manipulative Vulcans could be, particularly T'Pau – though thankfully she channelled it into political agendas, though he wouldn't want to tempt fate. Still, it was over. Not murder, simply the end of a life.

Besides, there were other things to think about. He remembered the panic that had ensued a few years ago in Starfleet headquarters after reports of what happened with Nero had been leaked to the Empire. There had been sporadic reports of backlash against any Federation vessel that went anywhere near the Neutral Zone, and such attacks were becoming more frequent. Spock would have called it illogical - by their standards Nero wasn't even born, and therefore technically not one of their citizens. Spock really had no idea sometimes.

Of course, the Federation was expecting war. The Romulans, the glimpses at what a Vulcan could become, were ferociously protective of their own when it came to Starfleet action, and though Nero had obviously been a rogue, the point was moot. The rumblings that filled the dark, awful silence of space were growing louder, and Pike had alerted all ships to exercise greater caution.

But there was peace, at least for now, and it was ridiculously late at night. Kirk dimmed the lights, and crawled into his bed.

Whatever was to happen, it would wait until tomorrow.


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

"Well, Spock, I don't know about you, but I'm looking forward to having a look around D'Walla without having half the Vulcan Council breathing down my neck." McCoy beamed. The doctor was already standing on the transporter pad, dressed in civilian clothes, a large black bag slung around his back, and another in his hand, by the time Spock arrived.

"The word, doctor, is _Tuh-Hwal_ - 'she who rises'." Spock showed the faintest trace of weariness, joining McCoy on the transporter. The two men were to join Kirk and Uhura, who had gone ahead to visit Sarek – Kirk was to be his guest of honour, and Uhura had taken the Captain for a quick tour of the city, pointing out the finer points of Vulcan etiquette.

"I hope you do not feel that I am being banal, but in the past few days I have had to listen to variations upon that word which are, shall we say, less than complimentary…"

McCoy looked astonished, "Like…you mean, swearing?"

Spock said nothing, but McCoy, over the years, had become adept at detecting and identifying exactly what emotion the Vulcan was trying to stifle. He smiled broadly, "Like what?"

"It is hardly proper for me to explain, at this time, McCoy," Spock replied, clasping his hands loosely behind his back and staring coolly up at the ceiling. "Although," he continued, "as you are the worst offender, perhaps a brief conversation with Lieutenant Uhura will be enlightening Energise."

* * *

><p>Uhura smiled to herself. <em>Space is not silent, <em>she'd said._ It's my job to hear it talk_. Spock was not so inflexible that he missed her point, but nevertheless couldn't help himself from pointing out the numerous flaws in the statement - the transmission of frequencies through space could hardly be comparable to the literal capability of speech. Unfortunately, not even refined Vulcan logic could endure much scrutiny under the skewed rationale of humans who liked to drink, and soon there was no point dwelling on it.

Kirk had practically ordered them to have dinner that evening on Maurhiwa. His cousin and her husband had taken the opportunity to move to the new Vulcan colony and had settled in what was referred to as the 'human district' of T'Hual. Ten years older than Kirk, Janice Griffin's greatest passions were good food and cheap prices: otherwise known as the perfect formula for a restaurant. Her restaurant was one of the few places on Vulcan that served meat, and as a result it was rarely empty. Delighted, and with the bonus of one week of shore leave, Kirk led the small party, including McCoy, Uhura and Spock, to sample Janice's cuisine.

Spock, naturally, didn't drink more than a few sips of wine - something strong and sweet, and possibly illegal, that Janice had acquired. The others eagerly split his share, and the conversation flowed in several directions at once, almost draining even Spock's mental dexterity. Still, Spock had rendered McCoy almost speechless, by repeating an obscene limerick (the old chestnut about the man from Venus) he had heard while sharing an apartment with other cadets at the academy.

"I can't believe you just said that, Spock! How positively human of you."

Spock's eyes narrowed by a fraction, "That is in rather poor taste of you, Doctor."

McCoy spluttered, "_Me?_ Spock, _you_- you know what, never mind." Practically doubled over with laughter, McCoy reached over and filled Spock's glass with wine. "Just warn me next time."

"Y'know, this is interesting." Kirk grinned devilishly. He leaned across the table and clasped his hands under his chin. Whispering in a mock conspiratorial tone, he said, "Spock, I dare you to get wasted. Everyone's dying to see what it's like." He pushed Spock's glass closer to him, "I bet it would be legendary."

Spock simply raised an eyebrow and twitched his mouth into something maddeningly close to a smile. "Starfleet protocol is very clear: an officer must not act as a danger to either himself…or others."

Kirk and McCoy nearly fell out of their seats. Even Uhura shook with laughter. Spock glanced at her. Since taking her post on the _Enterprise,_ she rarely drank. Even now, she'd had only a glass or two of Janice's unspeakable wine - but it was pleasing to see the flush in her cheeks and the wild light in her eyes. Almost shyly, he put his arm around her waist and pulled her a little closer to his side. Uhura smiled broadly and kissed his cheek: such gestures were rare, especially in front of Kirk and the doctor. As it was, they hadn't even noticed - they were engaged in negotiations for more drinks.

It was time for dessert. "You've never had ice cream, Spock? Seriously? How's that even possible?" McCoy pursed his lips in thought as he scanned the menu: "I'll buy you some. Like some strawberry or something. I mean come on, man; you lived on a desert world for twenty years. Didn't you ever get…hot?"

"Unfortunately, my father was not particularly enthusiastic about Terran cuisine."

"Yeah okay, I'll order you some. Excuse me, miss…?"

As Kirk and Spock negotiated the dessert menu, Uhura turned to Spock. "Speaking of your father…did he seem a little, I don't know, _off_ when we saw him earlier?"

"If my father was worried, I doubt that you would have noticed."

Kirk heard that. "Ah, sir underestimates the lady. She's fucking a Vulcan, Spock, so I'm guessing she can see behind the whole "no emotions" thing," said Kirk.

"Must you be so crude, Captain?"

"Why not? You guys are the ones who are f-"

Spock ignored him and turned to Uhura, "I simply meant that my father's control _never_ slips." He ran a finger lightly over the back of her hand. "I know that you can see what Vulcans try to hide, but my father is particularly adept."

"But he was worried. You agree with me! That's why you're avoiding the question."

Spock sighed. He looked over at Kirk and McCoy, who were listening intently, suspending their drinks. He sighed and leaned in over the table. "Very well, but for now this is strictly off record. Agreed?"

The humans nodded.

Spock placed both hands before him and laced his fingers together. "You have all heard that Sumar has taken a seat on the Vulcan High Council following the death of Sirar? Let us say that, despite the inquest, my father is concerned that…" Spock let his sentence slip away from him as he looked over to the door of the restaurant.

McCoy was the last to get the hint. "Concerned about what?" Kirk nudged him sharply in the ribs and indicated the door with a nod of his head. Sumar had just stepped through the door, flanked by two of his aides. Sumar scanned the area and picked out Spock from among the crowd. McCoy's jaw dropped as Sumar cheerily waved, smiling openly. He finished his drink in one gulp just as Sumar approached the table.

"Commander Spock," the Vulcan said, "I trust you are having an enjoyable evening, and that your father is in good health."

"My father is in excellent health, thank you."

Sumar nodded, still smiling. He looked at Uhura, "And you, my dear?" He pulled over a seat from another table and sat beside her. "I am a little curious, actually. Like most of my race, Spock has undergone the Disciplines in full – the total annihilation, or so he will claim, of all emotion. How do you find him?"

"Um," Uhura glanced at Spock quizzically, "I'm not sure what you mean."

Sumar laughed, "Is he a passionate lover? Or does he just lie there with both eyes closed?"

Uhura's mouth tightened. "Which would you prefer?"

The faintest trace of a blush crawled over Spock's cheeks, "Nyota, perhaps-"

Sumar chuckled. "And how does it feel to have a mongrel for a lover?"

Nyota swung around in her chair and most likely would have slapped him, had not McCoy slammed his glass down on the table. "Now listen to me. It wouldn't matter to me if T'Pau herself had asked that question – I'm telling you right now that you just crossed a line." Swaying slightly, he continued. "Mr Spock and his, his, his, his girlfriend, are here with friends." Here, he flung an arm around Kirk, who nodded slowly. "We're trying to enjoy a nice meal, and now you've made us all uncomfortable. There are no mongrels here, mister, just four Starfleet officers and an intruder."

As McCoy talked, the smile gradually faded from Sumar's face. "Forgive me. Spock is something of a novelty here on Vul- on Maurhiwa. I was simply curious. I apologise if I have offended you and your friends, Spock." Sumar stood up and bowed. "Goodbye."

As he left, Sumar quite clearly uttered the word _ark'ha_ to his friends, before glancing back at Spock. Spock stared back at him. After a few seconds, Sumar left. Spock looked up at McCoy, "Thank you, doctor."

McCoy sat down. "I may be a doctor, Spock, but I couldn't care less about Vulcan sex lives."

"What did Sumar say just then, when he left?" Kirk asked.

"It means _mongrel_, Captain. Half-breed. Half-formed." Uhura said.

"Ah, sorry Spock," Kirk said. "You know, I really don't like him. When I heard that there were Vulcans who didn't go all the way through the emotional, er, conditioning thing, I thought they might be pretty cool. But that guy is just…creepy."

There was that phantom smile again, "Thank you, Captain." Dessert arrived. Spock picked up his spoon. "But do remember that Sumar does not speak for all of those who do not undergo the Discipline." He hesitated a moment before loading his spoon with the neon-pink gelatinous substance that the waiter had placed in front of him. "It is quite good," he conceded.

"I think I see why your father is worried about him, Spock," said Kirk. "His attitude to you was, well, racist. And he has a seat on the council, too. Something's not right about him. Does your father think that he's still behind what happened to Sirar?"

"You have it exactly, Jim," said Spock. "But may we discuss it at another time?"

"Of course. How about-" But Kirk was cut off by the sudden burst of sound from the computer screen just above the bar. Where before it had been on silent, happily screening the latest in some daily serial, it now displayed a single face, unmistakably Vulcanoid, glaring into the camera.

"Greetings, Federation planets. This message is on all frequencies…"

* * *

><p>In San Francisco, it was early morning. Admiral Pike had not slept all night. It had been six years since he had lost the use of his legs, and every so often, he had a night like this; when frustration kept him awake. Tossing and turning, he couldn't let go of the hateful little voice in his head that told him that Starfleet, that the Federation, was laughing at him. His was only a token role, the voice told him; he wasn't even stationed at main headquarters, and it had been a long time since he had managed a mission of any real merit . Nowadays they had him overseeing trading operations, babysitting diplomatss, attending formal functions.<p>

Finally, he got out of bed and pulled himself into his chair. As he glided into the living room, he caught sight of his reflection in the hallway mirror. What a face. _Too lined and too tired, and far too __old, _he thought. He poured himself a drink, a fine dark whiskey that he kept in stock for just this time of night. He sipped it, and flicked through the channels on his computer – half-hearted comedies, a few documentaries, and an advertisement of the "dynamic" life that Starfleet offered the explorer. _For the wild of heart, trapped in cages…_he thought. Nothing of much interest, and no messages from the fleet. He sighed, and moved to turn off the computer, when the picture changed. Suddenly there was a Vulcan or Romulan (it was difficult to say, though he spoke in Standard English, one of the official languages of the Federation). Whoever he was, he intended to be heard by everyone.

"…My name is Saehur, and I ask that you pay the fullest attention to what I am about to say…" Pike opened his communicator – the same voice, the same words, on all frequencies. And almost certainly a Romulan, judging from that name. He snapped the communicator shut and listened to the rest of the message. "Our two great empires – for yours is an empire, though you hide it behind this word _Federation_ – have in the past reached an agreement regarding the limits of our borders. We have decided that this is no longer acceptable. We no longer regard the treaty, and its establishment of the Neutral Zone, as valid. Of course, you are aware of our recent incursions, but we intend to go further; to absorb what territories we find into a greater Romulan Empire. In the next few minutes, we will destroy Starbase 26, stationed thirteen light years from the Neutral Zone. We know that you will view this as an act of war. We are prepared. Long live Romulus." With that, the face disappeared.

The Admiral was still for several minutes. At once, his computer sprang back into life, and messages began pouring in from Starfleet. He steeled himself, put aside his whiskey, and got to work.

In the hours that followed the broadcast, there was absolute pandemonium. As soon as Starbase 26 had been mentioned, three armoured battle cruisers were dispatched, but they were too late, by seconds, and a small battalion of Warbirds awaited them. Of the 3 Federation ships and their combined complement of 6,500 crewmen, only 703 escaped in the evacuation pods. The Romulans had not pursued them.

"They're taking their time," said Pike to the other senior officers. "They didn't need to waste their resources on the surviving crews when they know we're going to retaliate with a whole fleet."

"So you're in favour of war, Chris?" Admiral Holt, an old friend and colleague, spoke up from the other side of the room.

"Are you telling me that you aren't?" asked Pike.

"They said they wanted more territory – perhaps if we gave them the Hondurian System…" There was a murmur of approval among the other admirals.

Pike couldn't believe what he was hearing. He sat bolt upright in his chair and looked around the conference room, at the faces of the 5 aging admirals. "You mean…just give them what they want?"

Admiral Holt ran a hand through his hair. "Chris, we'd be slaughtered in a war with the Romulans. It's that cloaking device. Starbase 26 was one of the most heavily armed bases we had. The Romulans destroyed it in minutes!"

"So we give them the Hondurian system, and then what? The Maurhiwa system is next in line. What will you do if the Romulans attempt to seize control of it?" There was no reply. The Admirals shifted in their seats, looking at each other while avoiding Pike's glare. "May I remind you, gentleman, that the Romulans pride themselves on successful Imperial expansion? The Vulcans would be a great prize, and an asset if it ever came to war between us. Maurhiwa is vulnerable."

"Chris...We're going to hand over the Hondurian system. There are no populated planets in it and it has plenty of resources – the Romulans should be more than satisfied."

Pike shook his head, wearied, "You give them the Hondurian system, it'll only be a matter of days, maybe hours, before they realise they have the Vulcans on their knees."

"The _Enterprise_ has been assigned indefinitely to orbit Maurhiwa, and there will be twelve other star ships patrolling that sector. I promise you, Chris, we're not going to abandon the Vulcans."

"I'm vetoing this."

"Chris, given the rather delicate nature of the recent events, we just can't risk open warfare. Not right now. Not before we have a chance to renegotiate the Romulan treaty. If you try to veto this…well, let me put it this way: You can agree to this…or you can resign."

Pike was stunned into silence for a few minutes. "I see," he croaked, finally. "Very well, Admiral Holt. You'll have your way. Give them the Hondurian system," he said, feeling like an anvil had fallen on his chest. "Let's just see what happens."


End file.
